


Stars Unfading

by EpiphanyBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpiphanyBlue/pseuds/EpiphanyBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of Ballykissangel's <em> The Comedies and Tragedies of 221B</em>, Chapter 6: "Catch a Fallen Star."<br/>Reunited with John at long last, Sherlock has one more small thing that he wishes to put back in place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Unfading

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ballykissangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballykissangel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Comedies and Tragedies of 221B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/933532) by [Ballykissangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballykissangel/pseuds/Ballykissangel). 



> I have not yet seen "The Empty Hearse." Thus, I have no idea whether or not this could fit into canon as it stands. When I do know, I may or may not edit accordingly. Thanks to Ballykissangel for a concept that I simply could not leave alone.

He entered the apartment, purposefully neglecting to take off his coat. The sun streamed through the window, but that wasn't any good for his purposes. He took some masking tape from a drawer in the kitchen and taped all sorts of papers to the windows, manila file folders, case notes from days long past- years, in fact. (Why weren't they all gone? Why were so many still there?) In the end he only managed to dim the light and use up most of the tape. He looked at his handiwork, narrowed his lips and clenched his fists in embarrassed frustration. He could almost hear John's voice in his head: _"Oi, Sherlock. That's very nice, but- you do know what the curtains are for?"_ He visualized the flash of indulgent amusement that would play across John's face, and his frustration melted into silent laughter.

The vision-John was right, however. Sherlock had bought these curtains specifically for the days when the sunlight annoyed him, for when dark was the only thing that would help him focus, and put his mind in the right place to formulate the patterns of the people who loved it best. Sherlock himself had a love/hate relationship with darkness. It cradled him, it threatened him. It made him anxious, it made him numb. It let him think, sometimes when he was most desperate not to. The same with silence, sometimes.

He did not take the paper and tape off the window. He closed the curtains over them and turned on the lamp. He stepped up on to the coffee table (surprisingly sturdy for a piece of only average construction and quality), looked up at the ceiling and reached a hand into his coat pocket.

Oh dear.

Where was it?

There was no hole in the pocket- nor in the pocket on the other side, which was equally vacant. He pulled off the coat and checked his trousers. One, two, three, four pockets, all just as empty. _And after all this time! Damn it all, I know it's just a trinket, I know I'm being a terrible fool, but please, please-_

Ah. Right, of course.

He was a fool, indeed. The shirt he was wearing, one of the few he owned like it, had a small breast pocket on the left side. For the most part the pocket was too flat and too small to hold anything of use, but this, this fit quite nicely. So nicely that even Sherlock Holmes could somehow forget it was there. He pulled the trinket out and examined it with relief and a sort of affection which was still odd, if no longer surprising. After all, this was an inanimate object.

He bent down and tore a piece of sticky tack from a ball on the table. This he attached to the object in his hand. He straightened back up, about to attach the object to the ceiling, when he thought better of it. He bent down again, adding a few more small pieces. He wanted to make sure that this time, the object stayed. He stood up again, craning his neck to look at a light blue plastic star right above his head. He stretched out his arm and pressed to the ceiling another just like it, directly at its side. He gave it a few more presses than he thought it needed, grinning in a sort of childish triumph. Then he stepped down from the coffee table. He picked up his coat and went to hang it up.

He had kept that star with him for years, through tedious, challenging, lonesome and impossible circumstances. He wouldn't carry it with him any more. It was where it was supposed to be. Besides, it was just an inanimate object.

He put the kettle on in the kitchen, sat down on the sofa, and waited for the real thing.


End file.
